


Adrenaline Rush

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Fear Play, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Strap-Ons, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His heart is beating rapidly and the blood seems to be running only in one direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenaline Rush

**Author's Note:**

> takes place during entry #19

Jay wakes up with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, the feeling of being watched heavy and sick in his gut. He stares out at the camera across the room and sees the ever-constant light of it recording, expects to feel comforted or relieved, but the sick feeling's still there.

He swallows and rolls over.

There's nothing besides his bed. His nerves are stretched to their ends, twisting his stomach in knots, telling him there's something in here. There's something in his room. He isn't alone.

He lays unmoving on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling. He's exhausted but too on edge to go back to sleep, as if he's a little kid again and, if he closes his eyes, the monsters in his closet or under his bed will get him, the shadows in the hallway will find him, the demons outside will crawl in through his window. But only if he blinks.

And it's like being a teenager again, watching a horror movie with someone's hands down his pants, having his first time in the middle of a zombie film in a drive-in theater, getting off to nightmares after marathoning monster flicks. He remembers his partner's mouth on his neck, laughing against his skin as they asked, “Is that what turns you on? Fear?”

It's not the fear that turns him on, he thinks as he unconsciously slides a hand into his boxers. It's the adrenaline, the dynamics, the wild nerves that distract from dysphoria – that's what he tells himself.

He's only a little ashamed of the fact that he's already somewhat wet when he touches himself. He fumbles around in the drawers by his bed and finds the lube, since he can't make as much on his own now. He turns away from the camera as if it can judge him.

The feeling still creeps along his spine, and he focuses on the dread and unease, the disquiet parts of his brain that are too alert to be upset, as he runs the palm of his hand over himself. He takes two fingers to the cock nestled in his pubic hairs and squeezes it, sighing into his pillow.

He rubs his thumb over his cock and his lips flutters into a smile; it's always so electrifying, how sensitive he is and – there's a sound from under his bed.

His fingers stop but his hips move upward, and he holds his breath but can't help sucking in one last gulp of air.

A hand reaches onto the blankets at the end of his bed, and a shape pulls itself up to stand.

The man is facing the other direction, and Jay wants to scream, wants to yell, “Why are you in my house?” or, “How did you get into my room?” but his instincts are too busy saying “I told you so!” and his dick is begging, “Please continue.” The only thing his mind can process is grabbing the blankets and throwing them over himself.

The stranger appears to flinch at the movement behind him, and then he turns around.

The mask has no eyes, but the black holes dig under Jay's skin and he shivers. He considers Jay, on the bed with a flushed appearance and something like terror in his eyes, and tilts his head, curiously. 

He opens his mouth but can't find anything to say as the masked man crawls up onto the bed. He should probably be taking his hands out of his boxers and running away, should probably be screaming bloody murder, should probably be kicking out from under the covers and attacking the intruder.

Should probably not lick his lips at seeing the bed dip under the extra weight and gloved hands advance towards his legs, but he's still touching himself. His heart is beating rapidly and the blood seems to be running only in one direction.

The black eyes steal his own and he can't look away, even though it hurts his head to look straight at him, as one hand reaches out and starts to tug away the blankets. It stops at his hips, and he can hear the man's breathing crashing against his expressionless disguise. The hand stays frozen, clutching the blankets, until Jay nods and mumbles, "Yes."

The blankets are thrown off the bed, and Jay's whole body trembles as the stranger moves on top of him, knees on both sides of his waist. He grabs Jay's hand to pull it out of the way, and the feel of a glove closed around his wrist goes straight to his groin.

He blinks as he hears the sound of pants unzipping and sees the man take out something black and phallic from his pants. The mask faces Jay once more, staring into him.

His eyes strain trying to look for more than a few seconds and he turns away, but the man grabs his chin so he can't. Jay nods to get him to continue, and he slowly lets go, the black eyes never seeming to do the same.

He leans over and settles besides Jay as if to spoon him, and Jay's heart thuds against his ribcage. A strong smell of dirt, but not the earth, hits his nose, and his eyes water. Gloved hands trail over his chest, sliding up his shirt, over his stomach, over his scars. They lay on the mattress, side by side, and he can't look away from the mask now hovering by his shoulder. The black painted lips look curled. 

Silicone nudges against his thighs, and he parts his legs. The man wraps his right arm under him so it comes up by his throat, and the gloves smell faintly of cigarette smoke and like – like trees? Trees, and mud. The smell of soil hangs everywhere about him like he just crawled out of the ground.

The thought appeals even more to his fucked up kinks, and Jay whimpers.

The head of the strap-on teases his entrance, and the man moves his hips so it carelessly rubs up and down, but not in and out. Jay's fingers curl in the blankets and he rocks downward, hoping to spur on the stranger, but no such luck.

The strap-on makes wet sounds that barely register in Jay's brain as it slides over him, because the tip finally comes to a stop at his hole and he melts against the man's body.

But it stops moving, and Jay itches to thrust himself down on it out of impatience, even though he very likely couldn't fit it right now, anyway.

The man pulls off the glove on his free hand, and the dark hair on his knuckles looks like the same color as the paint on his mask in Jay's poor bedroom lighting. He reaches down and strokes Jay's prick – and it's a simple, light touch but he shivers.

The brush of fingers picks up speed - he breathes in deeply, and has to remind himself to let it out. He groans as the man jerks him off, the pit of fear from earlier no longer as necessary as the warmth pooling in his crotch.

He knows he's close to an orgasm when his legs start to tremble; he grinds against the man's fingers and the movement makes the head of the strap-on press up. His entrance is so teased open and wet and it slides in, fits right up inside him. His climax spreads quickly through his body.

The glow of his first climax fades and the fingers are gone, moving from his hips to inside his shirt. The hand stays, pressed flat against his stomach, as Jay tries to control his breathing. He clenches around silicone as it starts to move inside him and he feels a dirty sense of pride when the strap-on fits more than halfway. He hisses through his teeth and the man stops, and circles his hips around until Jay can stretch further.

The masked man starts to fuck him, gripping his hips with one hand so he can angle him just right, fuck just right into him and his jaw goes slack. He would blush knowing there's drool on his pillow but he can't turn any more red, from his shoulders to his cheeks, from his swollen cock to his curled toes.

He loses himself somewhere along the line and cums again, and again, and when the fingers digging in his hips start to hurt and he doesn't think he has it in him for another orgasm, the stranger slows down and pulls out.

There's a wet spot on the blankets and the air smells like sweat and cum, and yet the persistent smell of dirt still lurks on the man's jacket and jeans. Jay doesn't move as he hears pants zipping up and the bed creaking, the blankets rustling as the man gently pulls them back up around Jay, but turns to look when he stands up.

“Take off your mask,” is the only thing he says to him, voice hitching.

The stranger doesn't make a move at first, but he finally raise his hands to the edge of his mask – there's a ringing in Jay's head – and tries to lift it off.

Suddenly he jerks his hand away, and turns to look at the camera. He crouches in front of it and stares, stares, and Jay can't tell what he's staring at, the light or the lens, since he can't look out of his mask.

Jay blinks and the door is open, his room empty. He didn't even hear any footsteps as the man left. He resists the urge to fall asleep and steps out of bed, thinking to follow that mask to whatever forest it's from.


End file.
